A Brother's Duty
by rusticautumn
Summary: "'They didn't get it,' the barely coherent words tumbled from d'Artagnan's lips as his eyes rolled back, his head dropped, and he slipped slowly, sideways, from his saddle." A brother's duty is to his mission, his fellow soldiers, and to his family. D'Artagnan's solo mission doesn't quite go to plan. Story is finished. Will post one chapter a day.
1. Chapter 1

**AN/ Welcome to my new Musketeers story - it's completed so I'll be posting 1 chapter a day until it's all up. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 **Story Information : The setting for this story is slightly AU. It's set after Season 2 insofar as Constance and d'Artagnan are married, but France is not yet at war with France, Aramis hasn't left, and Treville is still the Captain at the garrison.**

There was a clatter of crockery as Porthos set his plate and pitcher upon the table with a satisfying _thunk_ before threading his large frame onto the bench.

'Mornin',' he said cheerily by way of greeting as he dug into his breakfast.

He was greeted by a coy smile from Aramis and a groan from Athos.

'Did we have fun last night then?' Porthos asked Athos, going to slap his friend on the shoulder before seeing Athos' pale, near-green face and deciding better of it.

'Well, I for one, had great fun last night,' Aramis put in as he finished clearing his plate and eloquently whirled his spoon before him, smirking a little in Athos' direction. Athos, for his part, simply sunk his head lower, wishing he could be left to wallow in his pitiful state.

A little of Aramis' smirk dropped away out of concern for his friend.

'Athos? Are you okay? You seem—'

'I'm fine,' came Athos' blunt and rather hoarse reply.

'You're fine?' Aramis queried. 'This is a sorry state you're in this morning, more so than usual. And you certainly don't seem fine. Nor look it for that matter.'

Aramis was right, he was in a far worse condition than he usually found himself in the mornings, no matter how much drink he consumed the evening before. This morning though, even the bucket of ice water wasn't enough to rouse him. He shook himself tiredly and raised his head, frowning at Aramis and then at the grounds of the garrison barracks, where some of the younger recruits and other musketeers were beginning to file in, filling the space with conversation and the racket of steel hitting steel.

Both Aramis and Porthos shared a concerned look.

'Athos?' Aramis queried.

'It's nothing,' Athos grouched. 'Just couldn't shift the headache this morning.'

'You're sure there's nothing more?' Aramis pushed.

Athos responded by wordlessly standing up, pulling his now empty pitcher of water with him, and strolling toward the armoury.

'Well that was… _not_ unusual,' said Porthos.

'It was a little unusual,' Aramis said as he watched his friend's back move across the garrison.

Porthos shrugged. 'So he had one too many than normal, it happens occasionally.'

Aramis pursed his lips. 'I still don't like seeing him that way.'

'He'll be fine,' Porthos said, knocking his friend's arm in a gesture of reassurance. 'We've seen him worse.'

'Aye,' Aramis sighed. 'I suppose.'

Porthos merely rolled his eyes at both his friend's antics and worked on finishing his breakfast before morning muster was called. If luck was with them, they'd escape guard duty at the palace. In the past few weeks, the three of them – Athos, Porthos, and Aramis – had been rotated around guard duty and the task of training some of the younger recruits at the garrison. It kept them busy, but they were conscious of their missing brother.

D'Artagnan had been away on a solo mission for just over three weeks now, and wasn't due back for two more days.

Treville had not, and would not, tell them the nature of d'Artagnan's mission. The three friends were confident in d'Artagnan's abilities, and trusted him to complete missions without them at their sides, but these last few weeks without him by their sides had unsettled them some, and no matter what confidences they had, they could not help but feel some worry towards their younger brother.

Morning muster passed without any undue ceremony, and the three men set about their various tasks within the garrison.

Aramis was instructing one of the newest recruits on how to clean weapons both safely and efficiently when the shout came from the men at the gate. They shouted for the captain, who briskly made his way down the steps from his office, but also for Athos, shortly followed by Aramis' and Porthos' names.

Aramis made the only logical conclusion – that d'Artagnan had returned – and left his post at the range to jog towards the gate. Then he sighted the horse and its rider, and he broke out into an all-out sprint.


	2. Chapter 2

AN/ I forgot to add a disclaimer to the first chapter. Apologies. Here it is now - I am not making any profit from this story, and I do not own the characters as they appear in the BBC 'The Musketeers'.

 **Now here's Chapter 2! Let the whump begin!**

* * *

D'Artagnan's mare trotted through the gate, mud caking its legs, its long neck bent in an indication of its weariness, but Aramis' eyes were drawn to the rider.

D'Artagnan was slumped in his saddle, his chin resting on his chest, his body swaying lazily, and his arms hanging loose. Aramis noticed the Gascon's right hand was tightly wrapped up in the reigns, though they no longer gripped the leather. His left arm sat in his lap, and as Aramis got closer he could tell that it was out of joint.

'D'Artagnan!' Athos called to his protégé as he finally reached the Gascon, but d'Artagnan did not – or could not – raise his head.

'D'Artagnan?' Aramis laid a hand on the lad's leg. D'Artagnan's head shifted slightly and Aramis caught sight of his face in more detail. Blood appeared to be matted in his hair, and was leaking across his forehead. Vivid bruises marred his face and his eyes, opened only half-mast, were ringed in dark shadow.

'Mon dieu,' Aramis murmered to himself.

'Th-y d-n't -et -t,' the barely coherent words tumbled from d'Artagnan's lips as his eyes rolled back, his head dropped, and he slipped slowly, sideways, from his saddle. Porthos and Athos grabbed him before he could fall too far, and between them, lowered him to the ground.

'Watch his left shoulder,' Aramis warned almost absently, as he tried to assess the damage.

'What's wrong? What happened?' Athos demanded.

'Exhaustion, concussion, pain… take your pick,' Aramis said softly as he first checked d'Artagnan's pulse and then began to pull at the Gascon's shirt. As he ripped the blood stained material away a string of colourful curses erupted from Porthos, who stood and furiously kicked out in his anger. Athos gripped his little brother's hand tightly and then pulled it away in abject dismay as he felt the Gascon's bones shift under the grip of his fingers.

'Aramis?' Athos pleaded with his friend. The older musketeer lifted the Gascon's hand up for the medic to see what he had failed to notice before: discoloured fingers, bent and crooked in places.

Aramis stared at them dumbfounded for a moment. He sat back on his haunches and surveyed the damage: the broken fingers, dislocated shoulder, bloody and bruised face, the bruises blossoming on his chest, the messy, bloody slice across the boy's ribs, and the broken ribs beneath.

Aramis shook himself and sucked in a breath.

'I need a doctor here now,' Aramis commanded, taking back control. 'Porthos, Athos, do you think you can lift him and carry him to his room. I'll feel more comfortable looking after him there. Someone had better get Constance.'

'Merric! Luc!' Treville called two of the musketeers out from the gathering crowd. 'Merric, ride and collect the physician at best possible speed. Luc, find Constance at the palace, bring her back.

'Matthew! Gather four others, follow the route back out the garrison and check the road to see if anyone is following. D'Artagnan will have been riding on the Southern road up into the city, but the south-west gate.'

The men hurried to follow Treville's commands and the crowd dispersed to allow Porthos and Athos to carry their burden up the stairs to D'Artagnan's and Constance's rooms. Treville followed, while Aramis sprinted to collect his bags from his room.

They gently laid the Gascon on his and Constance's bed and stood back as Aramis pushed himself into the room.

The room that d'Artagnan shared with Constance since their marriage no longer looked like the bare bones of a soldier's quarters, with Constance's belongings now neatly filling the space, offering the room a 'woman's touch'. Aramis frowned momentarily, wondering if perhaps tending to the bleeding Gascon on his marriage bed had perhaps been the right call, but then realised that not only was it too late to change direction now, but that Constance would have heard of nothing else anyway.

'Let's have a proper look,' Aramis murmured to himself and he knelt beside his friend and brother and began a much closer inspection of his wounds.

'He was beaten,' Porthos practically growled while Athos' face became a mask of stony anger, although the fear in his eyes betrayed his apparent steadfastness.

'He was tortured,' Aramis corrected them, but voicing what they were, in reality, all thinking. The removal of the shirt revealed not just his bruised and bloody torso, but also the raw ligature marks around his wrists.

'What was the mission?' Athos asked, his question directed at Treville. 'He said they didn't get it. What didn't they get?'

The corner of Treville's mouth pulled into a frown as he met Athos's stare of thinly veiled anger.

'Captain?' Athos' spurt of anger was a warning and a question wrapped in one.

Treville sighed and slackened his stance as he approached d'Artagnan. Reaching around Aramis' ministrations he reached to check the pockets of the Gascon's clothing which came out empty. A frown deepening on his face as he stood back to his full height.

'What was it he carried Captain?' Porthos asked when neither Athos nor Treville spoke.

Treville looked up to meet the gaze of the two men as they stood opposite him, the bleeding body of d'Artagnan lying between them.

'A ring,' Treville finally supplied them.

'What would… what was the value of the ring that would… that would result in this kind of… _treatment_?' Athos asked.

'It was a royal signet ring, to be collected from the former French ambassador in Spain,' Treville said. 'Because of the value of the ring, of how much damage the seal could do if it were to fall into the wrong hands it was felt that the best approach was to draw as little attention as possible to the mission. Sending d'Artagnan, with his Gascony heritage, and knowledge of the borders, felt like the most natural choice.'

'Well something clearly went wrong,' Athos said angrily.

'Yes, clearly,' Treville agreed. 'But let's worry about that later.'

'An excellent decision Captain,' Aramis interjected, his sharp tone slipping through his normally jovial words. 'Help me roll him onto his right side Porthos, I want to check his back for an additional damage before I put his shoulder back.'

'He hasn't woken up yet,' Porthos said worriedly, as he took hold of d'Artagnan's weight and Aramis shifted around the bed to inspect the lad's back, equally bruised and mottled.

'I know,' Aramis said softly, but offered nothing else.

There was a knock on the door and the physician entered the room, showing a group of men waiting anxiously beyond the door's threshold.

'Morning gentlemen,' said Doctor Fabian as he approached the bed to stand opposite Aramis. 'What do we have?' The seasoned doctor had been serving the musketeers for years now, and was familiar with Aramis' medicinal knowledge, and worked well with him when the need arose. He was also very familiar with the bond of brotherhood that stood between the four men in this room, and their captain, and knew that asking them to leave would be a waste of his breath, so he simply settled in and got to work.

'He was tortured,' Aramis supplied. 'Head wound looks shallow, but seems to have bled a lot. His bruises are self-evident. Dislocated left shoulder. Broken fingers in his left and right hands. Ligature marks. Two broken, and three cracked ribs, that I could detect. Shallow breathing. Deep slice that looks like it's started to get infected, it's at least five days old. I haven't checked his legs yet.'

'Well let's strip the rest of him down then,' Fabian said, taking it all in stock. Behind him, Athos suddenly found himself in desperate need of a seat after hearing his friend and brother's injuries. On shaking legs he made it to the chest pushed against the wall and sunk down onto it as the Doctor and Aramis removed d'Artagnan's trousers. It was only at this point, that Athos realised d'Artagnan wasn't, and hadn't been wearing any boots.

More bruises littered d'Artagnan's skin, and his right ankle was swollen badly. Fabian inspected it and then withdrew with a sigh of relieve.

'Sprained, not broken,' the Doctor informed them. 'That's a relief at least. Now then, let's get a poultice on the slice wound, and then we'll put his shoulder back in.'

Aramis and Fabian went about their ministrations, Porthos paced, and occasionally joined them at the bed to watch, or offer his hands when asked, Athos sat morosely, alternatively looking between the floor, his brothers, and his Captain. Treville had slipped from the room shortly after the Doctor had first arrived, but had since returned and lent against the wall by the door, watching the scene play out before him. Athos couldn't help but feel a little anger towards the man for sending d'Artagnan alone, only for the Gascon to return like this.

And during this entire time, d'Artagnan did not so much stir from his unconscious state.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:- I do not own The Musketeers.**

* * *

Aramis and Fabian had wrapped d'Artagnan's ribs and were in the process of cleaning and stitching the head wound when the door swung open, almost knocking into Treville who jumped away from the wall, startled.

A flood of white and pale blue fabric engulfed the room as Constance frantically searched the faces in the room before settling on her husband's.

'D'Artagnan?' she called to her husband, approaching the bed and reaching for his hand only to let her own hand uselessly flutter above the white bandaged fingers and wrist. Finally she settled for his elbow, laying her hands on his arm gently, and looking up at Aramis, a thousand questions glistening in her frightened eyes.

'Aramis?' she implored.

'He's badly injured, and has the beginnings of a fever, but… he's got a good chance,' Aramis finally said. In the corner of the room, Athos let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. 'He's hurting, but he's strong. You know him as well as we do, he'll come back from this.'

Constance nodded and watched Aramis a moment longer, as if she were looking for any lie that might be lingering behind what he said. Finally, satisfied, the anger and fear dropped away and she steeled her face into one made wholly of strength and love, and turned to her husband's unconscious form.

'The stitching is finished,' Fabian announced softly. 'I'll leave him in your care Aramis, but will come to check back daily, until we've both satisfied that the risk of fever has gone.'

'Thank you, Doctor,' Aramis said. The medic shook Fabian's hand before returning to his brother and patient.

'I'll walk you out,' Treville volunteered, and the Captain and Doctor left. Athos also rose from where he was seated and followed them about, keeping pace a few steps behind until the Doctor left through the garrison entrance.

'Athos,' Treville inclined his head towards his Lieutenant.

'Captain.'

'I searched the horse's saddle for the ring and couldn't find it,' Treville told him as he walked back up to his office. 'The horse is also not the one that d'Artagnan left with.'

'So the ring is missing, if he ever collected it from the Ambassador at all, and though d'Artagnan managed to tell us that 'they' didn't get it, all his other belongings are missing, except the clothes on his back,' Athos laid it out.

The Captain nodded.

'We'll have to wait until he awakes to find out what happened to the ring,' the Captain said, 'but if the horse and tack are anything to go by, it looks like our Gascon is still capable of besting a troupe of Spanish mercenaries, even when as injured as he is.'

'I'd still have rather him not be injured,' Athos said.

'I know,' Treville said. 'I feel the same. Please let me know when he awakens.'

'Captain,' Athos nodded, accepting his dismissal. He strode back towards d'Artagnan's and Constance's room and ducked through the door.

Inside, he found little had changed, expect that Porthos had moved to sit beside d'Artagnan and to wipe away the sweat that was beginning to gather at the lad's brow. Constance looked up at Athos and then gave him a knowing look before shifting up the bed a little and offering Athos a space to sit. Athos wavered hesitantly, but one stern look from Constance motivated him to move his legs.

'He's strong, our d'Artagnan,' Constance said with conviction. 'None of us need to be worried. He will awake and be perfectly fine in the end.'

'God bless you Constance,' said Aramis softly, with pride and kindness and appreciation in his eyes. 'God bless you.'

* * *

 **AN/ Next chapter... we get a flashback from d'Artagnan's perspective. But it's a few chapters yet before we'll have all the answers.**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

 **AN/ First of all - thank you for all the kind reviews, faves and follows. I'm really glad you all are enjoying the story so far :) You all seem very interested in what has become of the ring. I'm afraid you'll have to wait a few more chapters for that answer, but rest assured that d'Artagnan is a resourceful man!**

 **Finally - a note on the structure of the story. There's a few flashback scenes from d'Artagnan's perspective (this is the first). They appear in retrospective order (hopefully it's apparent, but I just wanted to draw attention to it here).**

* * *

The pain was incredible. It lanced through his body with jagged edges ripping through his very bones and skin. If he could have pulled himself out of the vestiges of sleep he'd have cried out, but he could make no sound, expect the low moan in his throat as the pain pulled him back under… further… deeper… down into blackness.

 _The pain ripped through him._

 _His ankle could barely hold his weight. He gasped soundlessly as he lurched across the room, his hands throbbing uncontrollably, and he tried to tuck his body in against the protests of his ribs, and to pull his left arm against him, from where his shoulder screamed out unmercifully for attention._

 _His vision was swimming._

 _He'd managed to get the ropes off, but almost at the consequence of his consciousness._

 _He reached the door and leant against it for a moment, breathing haggardly as he gasped loudly. His throat felt as though he had gargled broken glass._

 _He sent a quiet prayer that there might be no one on the other side, that the door would be unlocked, and then pushed it open, practically falling through as he struggled to keep his footing and his equilibrium._

 _There was a startled grunt as he collided into a person who had been standing on the other side. D'Artagnan knew his time was running short… knew that his consciousness was already fading, and that his body was too damaged to put up any serious fight. He found the hilt of the man's weapon, drew it clumsily in his broken and bruised right hand and rammed it up towards the man's face._

 _A spray of blood that was not his own splattered over his face and he grimaced, groaning through clenched teeth as the body that had actually been supporting him moments before, now tumbled down, and nearly brought him with it._

 _'_ _Argh!' d'Artagnan cried out, the sound ringing in his ears though, in reality, was quiet, for he could barely summon the breath to emit the pained sound. His injured ribs clenched tightly around his lungs and he stood, resting up against the wall, for a few moments as he tried to keep his eyes open, and his breathing steady._

 _He heard a distant laugh, and roused himself, out of fear and self-preservation. His only advantage in his escape attempt was to manage it undetected. The longer it took them to realise he was missing, the better. The more chance he would have reach the garrison alive._

 _He scaled the side of the barn; the room he had been kept in, a small storage space off to the side of the farm buildings. The place didn't appear to have anyone living or working there that he could tell, but he could barely stay focused on putting one foot in front of the other._

 _His feet felt almost numb, and were now coated in mud, the sludge seeping in between his bare toes. He grimaced at the unpleasant sensation, and winced as the movement called attention to his throbbing head._

 _He turned the corner to find no more men, but the horses picketed outside._

 _He sighed with relief, though the gesture was small for he was still struggling to breathe. He approached the closest horse, a dapple mare that was already saddled, and took her bridle loosely in his hand. She appeared content enough to follow him as he leant against her to keep himself upright._

 _He led her up the track a little way, so that no noise would draw the attention of the men who had been his captors for this venture, before attempting to mount her._

 _He paused, drew in as big a breath as he could manage, lifted his good left foot into the stirrup and lifted himself up, clenching his teeth in agony, and jarring his shoulder and ribs spectacularly in the move. But he made it, and found himself sat atop the horse, his vision zeroing out, his face as white as a sheet, and his body feeling as if it might simply drop out from beneath him._

 _'_ _Good girl,' he whispered softly to the horse as he wrapped the reigns around his right wrist again and again until he felt convinced that should he actually lose consciousness, he would not lose his ride._

 _Grasping the reigns loosely in his damaged right hand and trying to breathe as deeply as possible he kicked his mount into action, and settled in for what was about to become the most painful and tiring journey of his life._

 _As he rode off into the dark night his thoughts drifted to Constance and to his brothers. He drove himself resolutely forward towards his family, biting in the pain as he spurred himself onward and towards Paris._


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer:- I do not own The Musketeers.

 **AN/ Lots of d'Artagnan whump ahead in this chapter (another flashback). I hope it lives up to expectations.**

* * *

Words and voices filled the haze that hovered around his head and d'Artagnan did his best to grasp onto them. He thought he heard Aramis, and was that… Constance. He sighed. Then grimaced. He tried to speak but failed. His chest burned. His head ached. He felt water trickle over his head… water…

 _The ice cold water brought the Gascon awake with a strangled gasp. His chest constricted against the cold and the pain that assaulted him. He groaned and coughed and spluttered, and his ears echoed with an unrelenting ringing._

 _'_ _Are we awake now, little Musketeer?' asked a taunting voice positioned somewhere in front of him. The man's French was passable although marked with a strong Spanish accent. D'Artagnan lifted his head and squinted up at his captor. His damp hair clung to his face and obscured his vision, but he was able to make out the silhouette of the man, and his wicked, delighted smile._

 _D'Artagnan moved his head to the side, ignoring the man for the moment as he took stock of his situation. His head was throbbing and he could feel the rope biting into his wrists, from where his arms had been bound tightly behind the back of the chair he was sitting on. The room was dimly lit and small, although the distant smell of hay and wood chip gave him a clear indication that he was near some kind of stables or farm land. In a sort of perverted way, it smelt like home._

 _The man in front of him appeared to be the band leader, but there were three more men that he could see._

 _'_ _Hey!' the slap from his interrogator brought him back to the present with a jolt._

 _D'Artagnan glared up at his captor, biting back the cry of pain that wanted to erupt, the tremors from the hit reverberating through his skull._

 _'_ _Someone's feeling tetchy,' d'Artagnan bit out through gritted teeth._

 _His interrogator got down into his face and smiled evilly._

 _'_ _You have something I want,' the man said, his spit catching d'Artagnan in the face._

 _'_ _Is that so?' d'Artagnan responded, adopting a cocky tone that would have made Aramis proud, Porthos laugh, and Athos want to strangle him._

 _'_ _Where is it?'_

 _'_ _Where is what?'_

 _'_ _The ring!'_

 _'_ _I don't know what you're talking about,' d'Artagnan responded. 'I only have one ring and, well, on a soldier's pay, I'd say it's worth much more for its sentimental value than for the coin that you might get for it.'_

 _'_ _The royal seal,' the man continued, seething. 'Where is the royal seal?'_

 _'_ _You're looking for the royal seal?' d'Artagnan asked – still cocky. 'Well, I guess I could give you directions. How far from Paris are we? You see, the royal seal is at the palace, so if you take the north roa—'_

 _The punch landed squarely on his jaw, and his head snapped back with a startling crack that left his vision swimming._

 _'_ _The ring you were carrying!' the man roared at him. 'Where is the ring that you were carrying?'_

 _D'Artagnan couldn't answer immediately, but eventually managed to lift his head to look at his interrogator._

 _'_ _That… that ring?' said d'Artagnan. 'That I can't… help you find.'_

 _His captor face took hold of a thunderous expression, and he thrust his hand out, clutching the Gascon's neck tightly in his fist, so much so that d'Artagnan strangled for his breath. The man pulled his face within inches of the Gascon and d'Artagnan grimaced as he was assaulted with the smell of his bad breath and spittle._

 _'_ _You will tell me where the ring is,' the man told him._

 _'_ _D-oubt it,' d'Artagnan gasped out, his lungs constricting as they clambered for more oxygen._

 _The man smiled his wicked grin._

 _'_ _We'll start on your fingers shall we?' he said, suddenly adopting an almost pleasant tone and he dropped his hand away. D'Artagnan's head flopped down momentarily as he gulped in a full breath of air. The movement reminding him of the slice to his ribs, which he had received days earlier, and his breath convulsed slightly under the pressure of his burning throat and side._

 _'_ _Start with the ring finger,' the man added to his comrades._

 _D'Artagnan barely had a moment to prepare himself as one of the men moved in behind his back, grasped at his hand, awkwardly bound together as they were, and snapped his finger. D'Artagnan grunted, but managed to contain the scream of pain that shot up his entire arm. He tried to flex his hands, but the ropes held fast, and as the man moved onto his next finger, there was nothing he could do but hold his breath and try to keep his vision from zeroing out._

 _Throughout the entire process his interrogator stood against the wall, arms folded at his chest, watching with a sadistic expression of enjoyment clearly etched across his face._

 _D'Artagnan remained stoic throughout, containing his gasps, although his hands felt as though they'd been deposited into vats of boiling oil. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was counting. It was sickening that one of the only thoughts that drove him forward was the knowledge that he only had ten fingers. The pain was finite. There would be an end. He just needed to hold out._

 _His last intact finger was wrestled out of its joint, and d'Artagnan bit back a cry before turning to glare at his Spanish interrogator. Sweat glistened on his face from the effort of keeping his silence, and from keeping consciousness._

 _The man approached and appraised d'Artagnan as if he were a slab of meat at the butchers._

 _'_ _You're strong,' he conceded. 'But we will break you.'_

 _He kicked he foot out and launched the chair off its legs. D'Artagnan felt a moment was bewildering weightlessness, but was able to do nothing: his arms bound behind him; his feet tied to the legs. The chair carried him backwards and the fall ended when his left shoulder connected with the ground._

 _The crack was so loud that d'Artagnan would still remember it with perfect clarity months later. He howled. Actually howled as his shoulder forced itself out of its joint and then sat with the weight of d'Artagnan's body pressed against, unable to find relieve for the rigid frame of the chair holding him tight._

 _A roar of laughter echoed dimly in d'Artagnan's head, but he couldn't get a focus on it as the pain that blossomed out from beneath him penetrated his mind and dragged him down into blissful, painless oblivion._

/\/\/\/\/\/\

 _D'Artagnan awoke at his own volition to find his chair had been righted, although his shoulder, he discovered upon his attempt to turn his head, was still out of joint._

 _He was alone, and it was dark outside. He tried to breathe steadily, but found himself unable to take a full breath. He wheezed and was dimly aware that his side felt as though it was burning. Even with little to no experience of medicine, he could tell that the slice had become infected._

 _He grimaced, and concentrated on trying to stay conscious, and on testing the knotted rope around his wrists. His fingers were next to useless, but they were still somewhat pliable. He worked away at the knots slowly, having to stop every few moments in order to stop his vision from greying out completely. He was determined. He knew he would need to escape, and soon. Knew he could not break under these men, and that he would not endanger innocent lives, and this determination saw him through as he worked on the knots._

 _He flexed a finger and gasped in pain as he did, and so nearly missed the door opening, to admit the Spanish troupe of men._

 _'_ _Back so soon?' d'Artagnan asked, gasping over his words, and frustrated by his inability to raise his voice any louder than a hoarse throaty whisper._

 _'_ _Where's the ring?' the leader asked him once again._

 _'_ _What ring?' d'Artagnan responded._

 _This time the leader didn't get up in his face, he didn't scream or shout, or spit. He merely nodded at his men, and they rained their punches down on him. He felt his ribs bend and break under the pressure of the blows, felt his neck whipped back as punches caught his face, and genuinely cried out, his eyes smarted with tears, when a stray kick caught his ankle._

 _The assault was endless, the punches to his already injured side slowly sending him back to oblivion. Throughout it all the leader occasionally asked his question… that same question, again and again: 'Where is the ring?'_

 _But d'Artagnan remained silent despite his pain, and as he drifted back into welcome blackness no other thought filled his mind except that one…_

'Protect her.'


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

 **AN/ Apologies for the lateness of the posting. I had a busy day today and have only now had the chance to proofread the chapter before posting. I wanted to get it up before I went to bed though, so enjoy your late night reading.**

 **ps. Thank you to everyone who continues to to read this story - your faves, follows, and reviews brighten my day :)**

* * *

'Aramis?' Constance called the medic awake from where he slumbered less than fitfully against the wall of her room. 'Aramis?'

The medic groaned, but opened his eyes into narrow slits.

'Constance,' he said. 'What's wrong?'

'I think the fever's getting worse,' Constance said. Anxiety and fear glistened in her eyes.

'Okay,' Aramis said softly. 'Let's have a look.' He heaved himself up off the wall and took a few sleep-heavy steps towards the bed where his brother slept restlessly. He was thankful to see that the bandages were still wrapped tightly in place, but the sheets were disturbed, and that the skin which was visible glistened with heat and sweat.

'Mon dieu,' Aramis swore quietly, then remembered himself… and Constance, who startled at the words. 'It's okay Constance. I won't lie, it's not good that his fever's still this high, but he's a fighter, and he has you and his brothers fighting at his side too. He'll be okay. We might just need to help him get there a little, and to be patient.'

Constance looked uncertain, for the first time since she'd walked through the bedroom door that morning, after a frantic ride back from the palace, she actually felt like she was on the verge of tears.

'Constance,' Aramis called her out of her trance, and cupped her face in a tender move that would have had d'Artagnan growling at his friend for impropriety had he been awake, and for which Constance would usually have slapped him for. 'Constance, I will not let him die. On that you have my word.'

Constance wavered for a moment and then closed her eyes and nodded.

'Thank you Aramis.'

'Okay,' Aramis said, 'I'm going to look over d'Artagnan while you go down to the well and fetch some fresh water. And maybe a bottle of port or brandy from Athos' chambers might not be too far amiss.'

Constance even responded to that with a small smile, and then nodding, turned to fetch the water and alcohol.

Aramis turned to check d'Artagnan over, grimacing in dismay at the sweat that glistened on his face, lit up for all to see by the candles on the bedside chest.

'You weren't lying were you Aramis?' Athos' quiet voice asked from the dark shadows of the bedroom's corner.

'Athos?' Aramis looked up, but could only make out the rough shape of his friend. 'I thought you were asleep.'

'You weren't lying to Constance when you said that you won't let him die, were you?' Athos repeated.

'When have I ever lied about my medicinal talents?' Aramis parried.

'Never about your talent,' Athos said. 'But that doesn't mean—'

'I won't let him die,' Aramis interrupted him firmly. 'He will not be dying on my watch.'

'Aramis…' Athos' voice bore a warning edge, as he stood up and came to sit on d'Artagnan's other side.

'Athos, he is my brother. Our brother,' Aramis said softly. 'I don't want him to die, and will not borrow trouble while there is still something I can do for him.'

Athos appraised his friend with tired eyes before looking down at d'Artagnan's pale and fever-soaked face.

'I know,' Athos said on the back of a sigh. 'I just… I worry.'

'Not much new there,' Aramis teased his friend as he began to shift the bandages around d'Artagnan's torso to check the infected wound on his side.

They fell into a heavy silence, interrupted by nothing more than Porthos' steady snoring and the occasional moan or stuttered, incoherent phrase from d'Artagnan.

Aramis restrained the hiss that wished to escape upon his discovery of the weeping wound. Earlier Fabian and himself had applied a poultice, to draw the infection out, but had been unable to stitch it up due to the age of the wound. The skin was still puffy and was emitting a rather foul smelling pus.

Constance returned with the fresh water and brandy as Aramis was peeling the dressing away. She halted at the doorway and stared at her husband's weeping flesh. Athos was about to go to her, when she seemed to steel herself and approached the bed. She put the bucket and the bottle down beside Aramis and then gently pulled d'Artagnan's hair away from his face. She then drenched a new cloth with cold liquid and gently began to dab at his forehead, whispering to him soothingly as his fevered dreams raged behind closed eyelids.

Aramis watched the couple for a moment, feeling pride in Constance for her bravery and love, before turning to tend the wound. Using the fresh water he washed the wound once more, and then retrieved the poultice he'd made earlier in the day and lathered it on. D'Artagnan's body flinched as Aramis worked over the tender area, but Aramis remained focused on his work. Then, with Athos' help, he re-applied the dressing and wrapped d'Artagnan's ribs once more.

D'Artagnan flicked his head back, a weak gasp emitting from his lips followed by a wheezing whistle that had Aramis resting his ear against the lad's chest for a moment, to listen to his lungs' breathing.

Sitting back, Aramis lifted himself up from the edge of the bed and then collected a few additional pillows.

'Help me lift him,' Aramis ordered Athos. 'It might help with his breathing.'

Carefully, the two men pulled d'Artagnan up, resulting in yet another pained, wheezing gasp. Constance placed more pillows behind his head and back, and then they settled him back down. Aramis checked his breathing once more and then sat back, nodding in satisfaction.

'Better,' he said.

Constance stroked her husband's face while Aramis reached around her for the bottle of brandy. He took a sip, before passing it to Constance, who glanced at the bottle for only a moment before following suit. Athos then took a couple of gulps.

The three of them stayed in this manner for a while, and eventually Constance drifted off to sleep, he head resting beside d'Artagnan's.

A little while later, d'Artagnan's head rolled slightly and he mumbled something. Aramis bent down closer.

'Prot-ct h-r,' he mumbled.

'D'Artagnan?' Aramis bent close to him, trying to rouse him. 'D'Artagnan? Can you hear me?'

The Gascon's eyes stayed stubbornly closed, and both Athos and Aramis shared an anxious look as Constance remained in blissful sleep beside them.

'P-tect -er,' d'Artagnan mumbled again.

'Protect who?' Aramis asked his friend softly, although he expected no answer. 'Protect who?'


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

 **AN/ Only 2 chapters left after this! I've got some busy days ahead, so they may be posted in the evening as opposed to the morning, but I'll give you this to enjoy over your Sunday :)**

 **... The plot is beginning to unfold...**

* * *

There was something warm pressed against his side. He tried to move towards it, but couldn't get his body to cooperate.

'His fever's broken,' a voice filtered through to his consciousness. Aramis, his brain supplied.

'He'll be alright now?' another person spoke. Athos.

'Hopefully,' Aramis said. 'We just have to wait. Wait for him to wake up.'

D'Artagnan pulled towards the voices, towards the warmth at his side.

'It's good that she's finally getting some rest,' said another voice. Porthos, this time.

She.

Constance.

D'Artagnan grasped at the name. Constance. Constance was beside him. Constance, who he loved. He gripped at the name and tried to shift his body once more. Something moved. He did. And with it a pain tunnelled through him and knocked him towards the inky blackness of sleep.

He thought he might have let out a gasp of pain. He wasn't sure.

As he tumbled back into black unconsciousness he gripped at Constance. There was something important he needed to remember. Something… if he could just…

The darkness took him…

 _The room was dim, and the place warm. D'Artagnan stood in the doorway for only a moment, taking stock of the place, before ducking completely into the tavern._

 _He didn't dare look behind, though he knew they were following him. They'd caught his trail two days prior. The slice across his ribs pulled painfully as he approached the bar. He'd done his best to clean and bandage it, but had neither the time, nor the resources to stitch it up._

 _After their last scuffle he hadn't stopped moving, but he was still two days out from Paris, and could not keep going at his current pace. He knew they would catch up eventually, and he was outnumbered and outgunned. The ring, his precious cargo, felt heavy from where it hung around his neck._

 _He ordered a drink and took the proffered cask. He then turned to survey the room in its entirety. He knew what he was after. What he was looking for._

 _His eye caught a few potential candidates, but it was upon seeing the blonde woman with heavy set shoulders and tan muscles. A farm worker, or labourer, from the looks of her. She seemed to be alone, and she ate her meal contently in the corner of the tavern. She seemed unconcerned about being by herself within an establishment mostly filled with groups of men._

 _Cautiously he approached her table and she turned to appraise him with a look of warning in her eyes. D'Artagnan offered her a genuine, and almost apologetic smile, and then sat in her booth._

 _'_ _I'd prefer to eat alone,' she said, although she glanced at the fleur-de-lis on his shoulder._

 _'_ _I won't disturb you long,' d'Artagnan assured her. 'I must be leaving very soon. But first I have a favour to ask of you…'_

/\/\/\/\/\/\

 _A little while later d'Artagnan stepped out into the night, mounted his horse, and took off into the night, carrying on towards Paris. He made it only eleven miles before he was finally corralled and dragged down by the band of Spanish troupe that had been pursuing him for days._


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

* * *

'Why isn't he waking up?' asked Constance.

Having slept fitfully for a few hours of the early morning, she was now awake once more and the sun was climbing high into the sky. With his fever now broken she was desperate for her husband to wake up, to indicate that he was getting better.

'I imagine it's a combination of exhaustion and the head injury,' Aramis said. 'The fever may have broken, but his body's been through the wringer. You've just got to give him time.'

'He's past the worse of it, Constance,' added Porthos. 'I reckon he'll be up before the day is out. He's got a stubborn streak, he does.'

A small smile graced Constance's lips.

'Yes,' she said. 'And don't I know it.'

Porthos grinned toothily at her and then nudged d'Artagnan's leg gently.

'You hear that whelp?' Porthos asked the unconscious Gascon. 'Time to rise and shine.'

There was no response, but Constance smiled slightly at Porthos' antics, though Athos frowned from the corner in which he had re-settled himself, having only just pulled himself out of a doze.

A knock at the door caught all of their attention and they turned to see Pierre, one of the recruits, stick his head round the door.

'Sorry,' he apologised, glancing around the room, his eyes lingering on d'Artagnan in a mixture of hope and concern.

'What is it?' Athos asked him, rising to his feet.

'It's Constance,' Pierre said. 'That is… I mean to say, there's someone here to see Constance. A woman. She won't speak to anyone but Madam d'Artagnan. We told her you were busy, but she refused to leave until she got to see you. I'm sorry but…'

'I'll go see her,' Constance said, rising from her space beside the bed. 'Aramis?'

'Staying right here,' Aramis said. Porthos didn't say anything, but moved closer to the bed and gave Constance a gentle, reassuring smile, as he seated himself beside his younger brother and fellow soldier.

'I'll come with you,' Athos said, and he followed Constance out as Pierre led them down to the garrison grounds.

The woman looked rather young, and was wearing clothes that, well made, also looked well-travelled. Her blonde hair was pulled into a plait that fell down her back and her face was darkly tanned and freckled. She wrung her hands as she waited. They looked worn and calloused, like d'Artagnan's. Constance would guess her for a farm worker, or that she performed some other sort of labour that meant you'd spend most of your time outside.

'Madam d'Artagnan? Constance?' the woman asked after the approaching woman. Only for a moment did Constance feel conscious of the fact that she must look rather bedraggled having not changed or catered to herself at all throughout the night.

'Yes,' she said. 'Who are you?'

'My name's Juliette,' the woman introduced herself. 'I'm sorry, I need to be sure. He was adamant I checked… that I asked you… he wanted me to ask you where you were the first time you met.'

'Who asked you? D'Artagnan?'

'Yes,' the woman, Juliette said. 'He said I needed to make sure it was you, to be sure that—'

'We were at the market. Here in Paris,' Constance said. 'I was buying cloth. You saw d'Artagnan? When?'

During this exchange quite a crowd had gathered, including Treville, who was now standing to the edge of Constance and Juliette.

'A few days ago,' Juliette said. 'He asked if I was travelling to Paris, and I said that I was. He asked me if I could return this to you. He told me that he'd been sent on a mission, but had forgotten to give it to you, and wished that you would have it. He offered to pay a little for the additional time it may add to my trip, but he was a kind enough fellow, and I was happy to help. So, here.'

Juliette reached into her pocket and withdrew a heavy looking gold ring threaded onto a string of leather.

Constance took it, a stunned expression on her face. Treville instinctively moved towards the object, but stayed his hand as Constance lifted it and inspected the ring.

Juliette smiled.

'It means something to you?' she asked.

'It… it does,' Constance agreed. 'Thank you for this. For what you did. I must… please, have some dinner here. I'd like to speak with you some more.'

'I have business I need to attend to at the market auction,' Juliette said. 'That was where I was headed. I need to be going.'

'Please come later,' Constance said. 'I'll be here, at the garrison.'

Juliette looked a little unsure, but her curiosity piqued her and Constance seemed genuinely happy to have the ring, and to also offer her company to Juliette.

'Alright then,' Juliette said. 'I shall come by later.'

'Thank you,' Constance said, smiling. 'And thank you for helping d'Artagnan.'

'Of course,' Juliette said, although she was beginning to get the feeling that there was more afoot to what she'd been party to than merely delivering a gift between spouses.

Juliette turned to leave and Constance offered the ring to Treville.

'This is the ring he was safeguarding?' she asked him as he took it inspected it.

'It is,' said Treville.

'He must have known he was being pursued and decided it was unsafe to leave it on his person,' Athos mused. 'This way, he could guarantee that the ring still got here, while his pursuers were distracted with him. All he had to do was hold out under their torture, which I think we can assume he did.'

'He would never have given it up,' Constance said with conviction. 'Nor her.'

'Protect her…' Athos mouthed to himself thoughtfully, remembering d'Artagnan's feverish words during the night.

'What was that?' asked Treville.

'Nothing,' Athos shook his head.

'Alright,' Treville moved himself. 'I shall get this to the palace. You should return to d'Artagnan.'

Constance watched as Treville folded the ring into his tunic and then she pulled herself away from the group to return to her husband.

'He took a risk giving this to another person to carry, even if he did not tell her what it was,' Treville said.

'Had he not, they would have gotten the ring,' Athos said. 'He procured its safety the only way he could with the conditions he was given.'

'You are right,' Treville sighed. 'But I still think I shall refrain from telling his majesty that the royal seal was deliberately given to a civilian to carry unprotected on the open road.'

'Perhaps that would be best,' Athos said, his mouth curling up into a smile.

'Those men are still out there Athos,' Treville said. 'Matthew founds some tracks they thought might be his pursuers, but they found no definitive mark to know for sure.'

'Once the ring is handed over their purpose here is finished,' Athos said. 'If they know what's best for them they'll be halfway back to the Spanish border by now.' The threat and anger in his Athos' voice was unmistakeable.

'Still… I shall send some scouts down the road tomorrow,' Treville said. 'Not you or Aramis or Porthos though. I'm taking you off rotation for the rest of today and tomorrow. And d'Artagnan will return to duty only when Aramis deems him fit enough.

'Very good, Captain.'

'Right then,' Treville started towards the stables. 'Be off with you! Go back to the boy like I know you want to.'

Athos smiled a little and then masked it under his famous scowl before returning to d'Artagnan's chambers, leaving Treville to take the ring on the last step of its journey.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

 **AN/ So the end is finally here! I decided to post early given that my housemate woke me up before schedule and so I've got time to do so before work. I hope you've enjoyed following the story and that the epilogue will serve as a decent conclusion to the narrative. I would also like to offer my most heartfelt THANK YOU to everyone that has invested their time in reading this story, has fave'd or followed, or who has left me reviews.**

 **Now without further ado...**

* * *

'From what you have told me, and from what little I learning from him when we met, he is a very strong and kind man,' Juliette said softly as she stood in d'Artagnan's room. 'Thank you for telling me the truth of it, Constance. I'm glad that I was able to help you all.'

As evening had rolled in, Juliette had returned to the garrison and, over an evening meal, Constance had told the woman the truth of what d'Artagnan had asked of her. Now the two women were in d'Artagnan's room upon Juliette's request to look in on him.

The bruises on his face and arms were beginning to take on a yellowing tinge, and bandages still adorned his chest and hands. His shoulder had been strapped against his chest to prevent him from moving it and causing more damage.

The last vestiges of his fever had now left him, and Aramis had declared that the wound was now healing properly, although it would leave a relatively messy scar, for he had been unable to place stitches in the wound. Now d'Artagnan merely looked pale and bruised and completely worn out.

'Thank you for bringing the ring to me,' Constance said. 'A lesser person might have taken it for their own, even not knowing what it was.'

'Then your husband truly is a good choice of character,' Juliette said cheekily. Constance blushed a little at the double meaning to Juliette's words.

'I shall take my leave, but will be staying as the Ravens Foot Inn for the next few nights. Do you know it?' Juliette asked, to which Constance nodded. 'Good, I shall come by before I leave for home, to check on d'Artagnan and yourself.'

'I'll send word to the Inn if he awakes before I next see you,' Constance said.

'Thank you,' said Juliette. 'Good night Constance.'

The two women bid adieu and Juliette left Constance in the room alone with her husband.

As the evening progressed and more candles were lit amongst the room, Porthos, then Aramis, and finally Athos returned to the room to sit in the young couple's company.

With the imminent danger of the fever passed, and the answers concerning the ring now provided, the atmosphere in the room was somewhat brighter than the previous night, and now they merely waited for their d'Artagnan to awaken.

The four of them had settled into a comfortable silence when a small groan emanated from the bed. Constance turned to her husband, while Aramis lurched towards the bed with surprising speed.

'D'Artagnan?' Constance called to her husband. She watched as he attempted to throw off the last vestiges of sleep, and then… slowly… his eyes began to open.

His right eye was puffy, and could only open part way, but his eyes were clear and they settled on Constance's face almost immediately. He stared at her for a moment and then a smile spread across his bruised face, although he winced intermittently.

'H-hi,' he tried to speak, but his voice was hoarse, his throat bruised and dry and he instead erupted into a bout of coughs that set his chest on fire and nearly pulled him back into oblivion once more.

Once he recovered, Aramis offered d'Artagnan a cup with a mix of water and pain draught which d'Artagnan took without question.

'Welcome back by brother,' Aramis said softly as he helped d'Artagnan lift his head and take his drink.

'Was I gone?' d'Artagnan asked softly.

Porthos snorted from the corner and d'Artagnan's head turned slightly, trying to find the source of the noise.

'Right here brother,' Porthos said, moving into d'Artagnan's vision. The Gascon smiled at his friend and then a small frown appeared.

'Athos is here too,' Porthos told him, gesturing at Athos, who had been watching the scene with his breath stuck in his throat. He moved towards the bed also, and rested his hand on d'Artagnan's leg.

'Hello d'Artagnan,' he said quietly, a rare smile breaking onto his face.

D'Artagnan watched him momentarily and smiled back.

Then his eyes drifted back to Constance and he held them there as he drank her in. She ducked down and kissed him gently on his forehead and then his lips.

'I love you,' she whispered softly, completely uncaring about their audience.

'Love you too,' d'Artagnan whispered back breathlessly. His eyes were drooping, his body relaxing as Aramis' pain draught did its job.

'Go back to sleep,' Constance told him softly, but sternly. 'We'll be here when you wake up.'

'Um…' d'Artagnan hummed contently, but his eyes slid back open and a small frown appeared.

'The ring…' he muttered. 'Did she get here?'

'Both Juliette and the ring arrived here safely,' Aramis reassured his brother. 'You completed her duty and now you must do as you're told and rest.'

D'Artagnan smiled at that and his eyes slipped closed and he drifted off into a restful sleep, with his brothers and his wife by his side, watching over him.

 **END**


End file.
